Elvira Umbrafield
the Stormforged Countess
Named for the field where shadows pool like iron filings under a stormcloud, and for the old tongue's word for 'all'—because you are a gathering of every lost tempest.
Power
You can draw the iron from a storm's heart and forge it into a blade that remembers every lightning strike—but each forging consumes a year of your own storms, and the blade slowly rusts in your grip.
- Familiar
- A nightjar with feathers like hammered iron named Wexley
- Bloodline
- House Tempestir
Every dusk you walk the same iron bridge, counting the rust-pitted rivets—four hundred and seven—and you have been counting for three centuries. The last time you missed a count, the storm that bears your mother's name came and swept the river dry. You have not missed since.